


With Teeth

by Neurocrat



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bottom Matt Murdock, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Light BDSM, Matt POV, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Silk Boxers, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:16:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurocrat/pseuds/Neurocrat
Summary: She likes to break into places that aren’t hers. She likes to take things. She treats my body the same way.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Daredevil Bingo: I'm using this for "who/what/where/when/why/how" even though I think that's supposed to be about journalism. This is about where, when, why and how Matt and Elektra had sex...
> 
> I was listening to Nine Inch Nails, [Ghosts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EyKNUj-AjgA) as I wrote this; made a good soundtrack. Especially these tracks: 8 Ghosts I (for the sex), and 28 Ghosts IV (for the ending)

She fucks me the way she wants to.

She fucks me on the mat of the boxing ring, in the middle of the night after breaking in. After fighting, after making my mouth bleed. She holds me down. I hold her throat. Still fighting while we’re fucking.

She blows me in public bathrooms. A fast food restaurant, a bar. Once, not even in a stall, out in the open in front of the sinks. I’m tense all over, listening intently for anyone coming in, and she likes that, laughing around me. But I don’t even try to stop her.

She palms my crotch with one hand while the other’s on the steering wheel, taking us through skidding, too-fast turns.

She shoves my hands in the gap between the headboard and the mattress, over my head, and climbs on my face, grinding herself into my mouth, ordering me to suck. Harder. She fucks my tongue, fucks out orgasm after orgasm on my face, as I suck in breaths through my nose, until I break, making a sound and yanking my hands free to grab at her hips.

She buys me a month’s worth of silk boxers and makes me throw out all my old, cheap underwear. I’d gotten accustomed to the rough cotton grating against my skin, but the silk is so much better, I’ll never put up with the old discomfort again. She makes me lie still while she makes the silk move against me, too slow, too soft. She talks to me while she does it – tells me all the dirty things she wants to do to me. My eyes are squeezed shut, and I try to hang on so I can fuck her later, but she speeds up the movement of the silk on me just enough that I lose it and come inside my shorts. She gets dressed after that – “Come on, let’s go to dinner-” leaving me to clean myself up. She doesn’t have to declare that she won; we both know she bested me this time. I try to make her pay for it the next time we spar. I get her good and out of breath, manage to leave a good bruise on her ribs.

She likes to break into places that aren’t hers. She likes to take things. She treats my body the same way. The first time she licks her finger and strokes my asshole while stroking my cock with her other hand, I moan, and she takes that as permission to try to enter me. I almost throw her off of me. Then I sense that fierce smile on her: She’s taking it as a challenge. For days after that, each time we’re naked together (and sometimes when we’re not, my pants yanked down around my knees in some uncomfortable, tight place – a closet; a bathroom stall), she tries to penetrate me. Sometimes I grab her wrist and force her hand away, grab both her wrists and pin them behind her back. Sometimes I just whimper as she makes it past the first knuckle while sucking my cock, her tongue doing things to me that are so good that I surrender to her all over.

Eventually she has me on a warm bed, the slide of silk sheets against my back and my legs, and she spreads my legs with her knees and works on me slowly, with lubricated fingers, and shows me what she can do to me inside. She won’t touch my cock until I beg her for it.

She graduates me to toys a little too fast for me. (Most of what she does is a little too fast for me, but that’s part of the appeal.) A vibrator inside me while she masturbates me takes me to a level of orgasm I hadn’t known before. I shoot past my head.

After not too long, my ass is begging for something in it whenever we fuck. She arranges me on my elbows and knees and presses a strap-on dildo into me, gripping my hips while I gasp into the pillow my face is mashed into. She fucks me solid and good, like I need it, like she likes it when it’s my cock in her. Another time, she lays on her back with the strap-on and I ride her, making sure the base of the strap-on presses against her clit just right until she comes. Only then does she stroke me off.

 

When she leaves me, my hatred is as powerful and hot as my want for her always has been. I think about how I will track her down, all the ways I will make her hurt as much as she made me hurt. But I know it would be futile, and she won’t let herself be tracked down, anyway. And I don’t want her to hurt. I ache for her at night. I wake up pressing myself against the mattress, my face wet. And then I know the best way to hurt her is to not try to track her down at all.

She transformed my body, she made me hers. I gave her everything of myself. I acquiesced to her dominance. How dare she leave me after that.

When she comes to me a decade later, I want to slap the cool off her face. I know who I am now, I’m much more confident than I was all those years ago, having honed myself physically and intellectually. I’m not still hurting over her leaving me. But I want to slap her for what she did to my younger, more vulnerable self. I want to avenge that boy.

Still, I love her. I can’t help it. It’s programmed into my bones. She draws me right back in. No sex, she says (as part of the ground rules of our new partnership) and I laugh loudly and dismiss the idea, protesting too much. I mentally stamp out the bodily ache to touch her again.

When I talk to her about running away together, I do really mean it, and at the same time I do think we’re both going to die and it’s a fantasy. It can be both at the same time, can’t it?

She dies in my arms. She’s so brave in the face of cessation. For one moment, I grasp her in her entirety: She has always cloaked herself, hidden much of herself for the sake of having more power over the other, but all of her is in her face and posture and sounds now. I sense her instability, the twists in her psyche she has roughly paved over - twists that come from where she comes from, the same place I come from. Having been shaped into a weapon while still so small. I sense where she hurts, but also how strong she is, more strong than she even lets on.

If I can just hold a little bit of that strength inside me. Keep it close and tell no one. I will do my best to, in her memory.


End file.
